the morn,

No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east;

Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops:

I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Juliet. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:

It is some meteor that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua; Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to

be gone.

Romeo. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death:

I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say, yon gray is not the morning's

eye,